


The Peasant And Her Duke

by orphan_account



Category: Elite (TV)
Genre: 1900s, Angst, Elite (TV) - Freeform, F/M, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Peasants, Period Piece, Romance, Spain, servant - Freeform, spanish nobility
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-01 09:49:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16282325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It's the early 1900s and Spanish nobility shouldn't be this intertwined with peasant life.(Or, a Spanish nobility AU, where Nadia is a servant and the future Duke of Seville has always gotten under her skin).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ummmmmmm? Yup. I'm doing this. A remnant of an old story I once wrote (for those of you who know me, which may not be many these days). 
> 
> Nadia and Guzmán caught me in my feelings.

1901, Spain

It was on a hot summer afternoon in July that the visiting Marchioness of Caleruega, declared the lavish tea party on their country villa. Word had gone around that nobles from far and wide would come to the gathering, making it the ideal hunting ground for opportunistic mothers with daughters of the marrying age. Nevertheless of the uncomfortable summer humidity, everyone donned on their best summer garments covered in white lace and exotic silks. The jolly festivities guaranteed everyone a great time, if nothing else. 

Meanwhile, a little black head of springy corkscrew curls stuck out from the door with great caution and scanned the deserted hallway with intrigued brown eyes. Seven year old Nadia Shanaa mentally plotted on making a run for the stained glass doors that led outside to the gardens where the party was taking place. She, along with several playmates, had agreed on a game of hide-and-seek; as the best player among the group, Nadia took her hiding spot very seriously. Unfortunately, she hadn't gotten halfway through the hall when the shrieking voice of Carla Rosón Caleruega pulled her to a halt.

It turned out that she was the last to have gotten caught, so her ego wasn't too bruised.

Carla giggled. "Christian told me." The little blonde tossed the boy of eight a smile, Carla had the stable boy's son wrapped around her porcelain little finger.

Nadia threw Christian a haughty look for squealing and gave him the silent treatment for the duration of time it took the children to make their way outside. 

Being the sole heiress of a vineyard the expanse of their town and neighbouring villages thus, as the undisputed head of the group, Carla led the other children outside for refreshments. They eyed the conversing adults with disinterest and secluded themselves in an area not too far away underneath an old fig tree. 

Lucrecia, a brusque brunette and daughter of rich foreign diplomats, bickered on the best and most awful dresses the nobles were wearing with the shaking of her head. The company, she went on, was unfit for the Duke of Seville who was rumored to be arriving at the grand villa. Nadia frowned at the scornful attitude of such a young and distinguished lady, having always been the angel of the group as well as Nadia's good friend. It had been a common joke between them how they had practically been together since infancy, even though Nadia's family were farmers and servants to the Marquess of Caleruega, and Lucrecia and Ladyship Carla had been birthed with golden spoons in their mouths. 

"Don't be silly, Lu. I heard my father say how good his grace is, and I won't believe that he's arrogant enough to refuse common company." Carla's remark with its usual haughtiness left Lucrecia red, but it did little to ease Nadia's worries. She looked down at her dress, the very colour of over ripened figs that littered the grass beneath their feet. The hem a little frayed. 

"I heard the Duke will be bringing his son with him today," Lucrecia continued, not much could keep her quiet for long. Lu twisted her silky locks in her little fingers, a dreamy look in her eyes, "I hope he will be nice."

"His name is Guzmán or so I heard," Polo, son of a Count and the eldest of the group at ten, added.

"Well, I think he's going to be a fine gentleman," Nadia said, laying down her assumption on their conversation. "I have seen him once before at the villa. He did not stay very long though so I only had the impression that he was quiet. But the other servant girls simply gushed over how adorable he was and how he will be sure to grow up handsome."

"I'm sure that is why you have been crushing on him!" Says Samuel. Like Nadia, he was the child of a local farmer. She had more than once had the privilege of being abused by his pranks, as good friends usually are. A harmless boy nonetheless, one in whom she may one day find an equal match, regardless of his Catholic upbringing. 

The little brunette flamed red, like a ripened tomato before it is to be put out in the sun to dry. "Be quiet, Samuel! I very much do not!" Nadia did, as a matter of fact, have a slight crush on the soon-to-be Duke as Samuel said, but was ready to deny it even at the risk of a spanking from her father.

"Well, is he handsome?" Omar, Nadia's twin brother, inquired.

Blushing, Nadia shrugged. "I suppose."

Lucrecia, who had her eyes at the party all the while listening to their little group, squealed in delight. "I see them! I see the Duke and his son!"

Seven heads turned at once to catch glimpses of the mysterious Nuniers, the noble family who was once said to be a common presence at the King's castle. Nadia's eyes searched the crowd for the little Duke she once saw at the villa parlour and since then had resided in her innocent, childlike fantasies. Her brown eyes scouted the vicinity helplessly until they met the form of the boy of her dreams.

At the age of twelve, hardly a child anymore, Guzmán Nunier walked with a friend of his own toward their little group. Together, they looked superior and almost adult like that Nadia felt the bitterness of being on different worlds in more ways than one. He had grown over the period of time since she had last seen him so that now, she had to strain her eyes by slanting them upward.

The Duke's friend, a dark haired boy with a friendly smile talked with Polo and arranged a game of a tag by pairs to avoid difficulties. Partners appeared in a blink of an eye and by the time Nadia had recovered from her trance, she found her usual partner Carla already snagged by Polo. Christian always partnered with Samuel, and the dark haired boy sided with her brother, leaving her and Lucrecia with the Duke as a matter of who will be left out.

Nadia smiled smugly and felt the confidence burning in her chest. It would surely be her—after all she was known as the best runner throughout the country side. She was the champion of champions in tags. Everyone was already telling the young boy to choose her. She eagerly anticipated the Duke, who even at this time had not said a word, to call her forward. But to her absolute shame, Guzmán motioned for Lucrecia to come.

Humiliation had never been as worse for the little brunette.

Nadia forced a smile to Carla, who sensed her hurt pride, to tell her she was okay and mumbled about resting for a while. She took a glaring look at the nasty Duke and Lucrecia who was more than happy to be partnered with the most handsome boy she had ever seen. 

Tears were stinging her eyes and blurring her vision; with all the haughtiness she could still muster, the dark haired girl with the corkscrew curls turned and walked away from the group, scarred with shame and wounded pride.

It was on that hot summer afternoon that seven year old Nadia Shanaa swore to loathe the Duke of Seville for as long as her rage would allow her to. 

And somehow, it was a rage that never went away.


	2. Chapter 2

1910, Seville.

Today was a day of celebration. Wine was poured from silver, boars had been stalked, speared and roasted and the palace was heavy with the smell of dripping fat, spice, and incense, red and stinging burning in their candle holders.

Today was a day of celebration and someone had drawn what looked like a phallic object on Nadia's maid servant dress. 

It was difficult, she decided, unless you looked at it from a certain angle, to tell exactly what it was. It had been done very crudely and haphazardly with a stick of kohl and the hand was shaky, as if belonging to a child. But despite this it had remained resistant to all her attempts to wash it or brush it off and she supposed that whoever had done it had gone over it in wax or oil, resulting in a hard, translucent sheen that served both as a protector and an emphasiser. But still, she told herself, it is difficult to tell what it is. It is barely possible, unless you look at it from a certain angle.

"May Allah give me patience," Nadia muttered to herself as she was hunched over a windowsill within the small servants quarters. The light from her candle and the Sun just peaking beyond the horizon in the East was insufficient to determine whether her scrubbing had made any significant progress. 

In a desperate gesture of reassurance she laid it out on her mattress and surveyed it, arms folded. She tilted her head. She looked at it from a certain angle. Curses. 

This, she realised with a pang of regret, was exactly the reason her mother had told her to pack a spare. She had foreseen this, in her uncanny, all-knowing, motherly way. It was evident in the way she kissed Nadia goodbye, the way her eyes shone sad and accepting as clear as if she had said “My poor daughter, my poor, poor daughter. They will eat her alive in that God forsaken city.” Nadia supposes she should have wondered when her mother hugged her so tight she felt her ribs wince and the imploring look she’d sent in her father’s direction. And when her mother had burst into tears she supposes she should have done more than pat her awkwardly on the back and assure her that despite what father said she had never once considered herself a “sitting target,” although this was partly due to the fact that running had practically been second nature to Nadia since birth. 

"Do not worry about me, Baba," Nadia had said during their departure, "I will keep an eye on Omar." 

Her father had given her one of his pensive and pained looks. Surely sending a daughter of marrying age to a foreign city accompanied only by her brother, whom did not have an outstanding track record, was not a preference of any father. "If it were solely up to me, my daughter, I would not have you so far away from us." 

"Baba..." Nadia sighed, as other servants passed loading up the caravan for the departure, "Home is further away from here than Seville." 

That had been five days ago. 

Nadia crossed over to the woven basket by her cot and rummaged through her belongings, sending hijab after hijab flying for the mattress in search for a dress that would do until she could find a replacement. Too worn…too plain... too bloody orange…and she wondered, perhaps if this sabotage had been intentional. The thought was an unwelcome one and Nadia dismissed it quickly as her fists curled around brown cotton. It was one of her mother's newer dresses, it would be loose but it will have to do. 

With considerable relief she yanked the material over her head. She had no mirror to check her reflection but she knew none the less what a picture she probably made. A skinny dark skinned young woman with big dark eyes set into a nervous thin face that was all apprehension and insecurity at this very moment. She held her arms awkwardly by her sides as she looked down to survey the dress. 

It was a few six inches too long. 

Wonderful. 

-

Nadia's hands bunched her dress to avoid tripping over the excess material at her feet. As she hurried down the intricate hallways, her leather slippers slapping against the white marble she knew that if she was going to be honest with herself, she really wasn’t that surprised. She had noticed the other servant girls sizing her up as soon as she stepped foot into the palace. She caught every suppressed smirk, discreet nudge and whispered taunt as she took her place in the long line of royal servants, the blood beating against her ears beneath her hijab as she tried valiantly to blot out the hushed whispers of "turban head". 

If she had been bigger, more imposing, they would have stayed out of her way. But looking like she did and being who she was it was rather unlikely. 

She entered the main hall through the side door cautiously, taking care not to look at anyone directly. Of course they looked up when she walked in, grinning vulgarly to each other and making crude gestures. She felt her cheeks warm but said nothing and took her place quietly in the line with the dozen or so other new recruits.

Samuel turned to give her the once over. “You’re wearing brown." 

“Well noticed,” said Nadia, craning her neck to see what was happening at the front.

“I thought we were supposed to wear our uniforms?”

“Yeah well, so did I,” she replied through gritted teeth. 

Samuel frowned. “So what happened?”

“Nothing,” Nadia bit her lip. 

“Right,” the boy whispered, tone bitter. “Sure. As if they haven't had it out for you since the minute we walked into the palace.”

“What would you have me do? Write a letter to my father letting him know I’ve been targeted for abuse on my first day, no thank you,” Nadia muttered. “Allah, what is taking them so long?”

"Hola, amigos," Christian's voice is right in Nadia's ear and she has to move over to regain her personal space as he takes a place beside her in line. "Fine morning isn't it?" He gives some of the servant girls around him a once-over, his signature smirk and wink included. "A fine morning indeed." Christian elbows Samuel as he gestures to a full figured blonde servant girl. As he gets back in line he gives Nadia the once over much like Samuel did, "Rebelling on the first day? I like it."

Nadia barely suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. 

"Where is my brother? He's supposed to be here!" She grits through her teeth while scanning the hall for a familiar face. Christian barely shrugs as the ivory doors leading into the main hall open. 

The Duke of Seville, it appeared was no longer quite the man he had been nine years ago. As he sat into his chair his knees gave a loud click that echoed across the hall. It was hard to imagine, thought Nadia, that this man had sailed to and from the Americas and Africa, shaken hands with leaders of savage tribes and been given his very own slice of heaven in the Indies. 

Once seated, Ventura Nunier folded his hands in his lap and surveyed the boys and girls before him with polite curiosity, rheumy but bright eyes tracing each face one by one. As they fell on her Nadia attempted to stand a little straighter but they passed her quickly, indifferent to the entirely unremarkable, the Hijab adorning her head aside. She felt her shoulders sag.

“Welcome,” he greeted in a voice that was surprisingly carrying, not at all like the expected rasp of an old man. “Long has it been since such promising young men and women such as yourselves have stood in my halls, a credit each of you to the fathers and mothers that brought you here. I trust that you will all do your very best to uphold the name of your house and abide by our customs, for remember that this is now your home and I am now your Lord. Shame and disgrace are foreign words to our tongue and I look forward to the day when it can be said that you have repaid my generosity with honour and duty."

He paused to bless them with a smile that seemed more vacant than anything else. They all understood that he was waiting for an expression of gratitude. A murmur of obedient thank you rippled across the hall until, satisfied, the Duke quietened them with a slight raise of his hand. “I rejoice in welcoming you to Seville,” he declared warmly. “May you give me just cause.”

-

The head housemaid, Ximena Marceli, gave one look at Nadia as she approached and all but had an aneurysm. 

"Girl, what is it that you are wearing?" Her tone was scornful as she inspected Nadia's skirts. "Where is your uniform?"

Nadia kept her eyes to the ground as a sign of respect hands clasped before her, "I apologize ma'am, it has been stained."

"A stain?" The head housemaid gasped, "how could you possibly have gotten it stained on your first day?"

"Again, my sincerest apologies, ma'am. I will clean it myself." Nadia nodded her head. She looked up for a moment to see brown eyes framed by crows feet inspecting her still. "If I could beg of you for a spare for the time being."

"That was a spare that you were given. What with all the new staff, the tailors can barely keep up. See to it that you are dressed properly tomorrow, and do not let the Duke and Duchess see you in this state." Too late for that thought Nadia, but she nodded none-the-less her eyes back on the floor. "You will be on kitchen duty until you can present yourself properly as a maid of this house." With those as her last words, the head housemaid departs down the corridor to see to all the businesses of such a busy day. 

Nadia slumps to the nearest seat, feeling just a touch rejected. Really rejected. 

“Well, that was horrible,” she mutters into her palms.

-

"I don't understand the need for all this," huffed Samuel, gesturing to the opulence and excess that permeated every inch of the palace. Nadia did not much entertain those around her as she focused on the task at hand which was shining the good silver until she could see the freckles speckled across her face. "It's not as if he is returning from conquering Africa. Besides, what kind of place is Morocco to send your only children?"

Nadia smirked, "I advice you not to voice such things." Not to say Samuel was wrong, such festivities should be reserved for Kings and war heroes. If it were up to her the Duke's son would be eating three day old catch and stale bread. 

"How long has it been, anyway?" Samuel is still on the topic much to her dismay. "Three... Four years?" 

It's been exactly three years, and two hundred fifty six days. Nadia remembers the day Guzmán Nunier sailed for West Africa as clear as yesterday. She had prayed to Allah that his ship would sink and that he would drown somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. 

God had not listened to her prayers that day. 

“They'll probably make a show of their arrival,” Samuel muses, glancing at Nadia from where he's perched on the arm of a chair. “It’s unnecessary and vain.”

“It is vain,” Nadia nods, straining to hear a door open, an arrival of a carriage, a cluttering of horse hooves making to stop. Anything. “But perhaps it’s necessary when you spend your life being stared at.”

Samuel only hums, posture lofty and leg still jangling. Nadia eyes the other servant maids staring at them.

-

“He’s going to be late,” a young boy squeaks, brow pinched and worried as he wrings his hat in his pale hands, staring up at the Duke in horror and carefully avoiding the Duchesses' negative energy.

“What did he just say?” The Duchess immediately asks the Duke, words lighting like embers and daring to combust into flame. The Duke does not respond, just stares steadily at the boy, hands in his pockets. His eyes are shaded beneath the brim of his cap, obscuring his emotions from view and thus making the Duchess panic all the bit more. The head housemaid is stood behind the Duchess, gesturing to one of the girls to bring forth water.

Nadia, from her place at the very back of the welcoming party, cannot even find it in herself to smirk at the spectacle; instead she just stares, a bit dumbfounded. 

“Do you know why?” the Duke asks, frown clear on his face, but his voice is calm and it makes the boy exhale in relief.

“No, my Lord, my apologies, my Lord,” the boy shakes his head, dipping his posture. “I merely heard word from a messenger that Lord Guzmán is going to be late.”

Again, the Duke opens his mouth to reply—until he’s suddenly cut off by Christian, jogging forth from the palace grounds with excitement dancing in his eyes, grin open and crystal bright. 

This... cannot be good. 

“My Lord!" he breathes upon reaching the steps of the palace, bowing only briefly before he continues. "The Lady Marina has just arrived. She is accompanied by the Baron Ander.”

“Right,” the Duke nods, eyes sharpening into a more focused look with a quick smile. He makes his way forward with his cane; he looks the very portrait of confidence and Nadia can’t help but admire him in that moment.

“I hear she’s beautiful,” Samuel whispers, now sidled up to Nadia. He’s changed into his valet uniform, a white button down shirt with a black vest and matching trousers. He looks very much like a school boy that's raided his papa's closet. She will have to alter and hem that for him, right after her own clothing situation has been sorted. 

Nadia tries not to smirk, biting her lips together as she raises her brows at Samuel's brightly lit eyes. Samuel always fawns over the ladies just like he always insists he doesn’t.

“Don’t you hear that everyone’s beautiful?” Nadia mutters, amused. She nudges Samuel's side, digging her elbow sharp. “We will need to put horse blinders on you and Christian both one of these days. Can’t have you distracted from your duties.”

Samuel pushes Nadia away in jest and that's when she arrives.

The four horse coach makes its way down the grey cobble stone path leading to the palace from the depths of lush green fields. It circles around the grand water fountain coming to a halt at the foot of the marble steps leading up to their welcoming party. The coach is a grand one. Made of the best wood and pulled by two fine black stallions. 

With barely suppressed smiles on their faces, everybody assembles, effortlessly taking their places once again with all the practiced grace of seasoned professionals. The anticipation is tangible, Nadia can almost taste it even. She cannot deny her excitement at seeing the Lady Marina for the first time. There is a weight to the name. 

She sees Omar walk towards the carriage ready to fulfill his duties. He had somehow managed to evade Nadia all day. 

Nadia extends her posture, presses her arms to her sides, and watches as the door to the carriage is opened by her brother. 

A tall man with short curly brown hair exits first making eye contact with her brother briefly. 

"That must be the Baron Ander, Lord Guzmán's good friend." Samuel whispers in her ear. Nadia shakes her head in agreement, she has a faint recollection of a boy following that arrogant bastard around back in Caleruega. 

Omar steps aside as the Baron extends his hand towards the entrance of the carriage. A gloved hand reaches out. 

Delicately, almost hesitantly, the figure of a young woman descends the step and onto the ground effortlessly. The first thing Nadia sees and the only thing she will later recall about the Lady Marina is her effervescent smile. 

Lady Marina takes a step forward, embracing her father. 

All eyes are glued to her.

Samuel was right—she is beautiful. She wears a pale blue frock that rests upon her shoulders gently, engulfing her frame eloquently, the fabric etched in pastel green and yellow flowers that are almost whimsical, childlike. Her waist is slim, her large eyes blue, her wrists nimble and soft, peppered with perfume. Delicate jewelry lay on her neck, her hair thick and wound up in a mixture of red sun rays and spun chocolate, her smile large and glorious, painted a soft shade of red. She is the perfect portrait of a young lady in the 1910’s, Nadia supposes; she wonders if Samuel's heart has stopped.

Lady Marina is lead up the grand stairs by the hand of her father, the hand that does not clutch the cane he leans on for support. The duchess awaits at the summit. The lights from within the palace cast shade in the shape of the duchess' silhouette over the last steps leading to the entrance. It is in her mother's shadow that Lady Marina bows, a stark contrast to the greetings she bid her father, the Duke. 

And it is in her mother's shadow that Lady Marina's smile lights up the welcome party still. 

Yes, it is her smile that Nadia will later recall when thinking of Lady Marina. 

-

The festivities are well under way by the time the Sun sets past the horizon, casting looming shadows of trees and fountains and statues across the lush palace grounds. 

Bright light spills out of the palace as Nadia slips past the French doors of the back foyer and out into the open air. She takes a moment to breathe, letting cool oxygen fill her lungs. She had been in the hot and humid kitchen all evening. Everything had been prepared to the finest detail for the dinner tonight, an intimate thing for a family reunited, aside from the still missing and delayed son. Samuel had stress eaten two loafs of bread in waiting for his ward to arrive. 

Nadia shakes her head, ridding herself of all thoughts. She has a mere ten minutes before she is expected back. 

The gas lamps lining the walkways around the grounds flicker dully in the fading twilight, providing an illuminated path for an evening stroll. It is from this path that Nadia deviates and makes a short cut for the stables.

She hopes to ambush her brother and question him on his whereabouts for the last two days. Remarkably, no one stops to interrogate her. 

Nadia entered the dimly lit stables, a few sparse candles burned in their holders but apart from the horses it seemed she was the only one there.

Nadia sighed, raising her arms and letting them fall by her sides in exasperation. "Omar, I swear to Allah, when I get my hands on you I'm going to-" 

"There you are, finally." 

Nadia turns around and freezes. 

"I have been kept waiting far too long. See to it that Alberto is fed and groomed before anything else. You can let him have three lumps of sugar after his meal. I rode him quite hard today. After that you could prepare my bath—hot water only."

For a moment Nadia almost gawks at the man standing before her, much like he had almost four years ago and another four years prior to that. The only things she registers at the moment, however, are a saddle and reigns that have been deposited into her arms and how much taller he has gotten since she had seen him last. Oh, and the fact that the Duke's son, in all of his arrogant airs and swift dismissal, had inexcusably mistaken her for a stable girl. 

Nadia felt her blood boil after having nurtured the contempt she felt for nine long years. How dare he insult and humiliate her all over again? She gave him a fierce glare though he could not see it since he was now walking towards the exit, his riding coat flowing behind him, nearly grazing the ground as he walked. Bathing in her anger, it completely went unnoticed to her how breathtakingly handsome the man she unfortunately saw truly was. 

The words are spilling out of Nadia's mouth before she can stop herself, "I am not a stable girl."

Guzmán Nunier came to a halt, the silver soles of his leather riding boots scraping against the grey cobblestone. The man turned to face Nadia, brows furrowed in confusion. "Excuse me?" 

"I am not a stable girl." Nadia repeats, "... my Lord." she adds, clutching tightly at the saddle and reigns she had been handed, the metal pieces clinking together as she shifted under their weight. She could barely keep upright with the weight of a fully grown man's saddle in her arms. The reigns were threatening to slip from her hold. What was this saddle molded from, lead? The Duke just stands there, chiseled from marble and draped in luxurious cloth, brows still slightly furrowed. The man casts penetrating, almost curious, eyes back at her. 

A droplet of sweat trickles down Nadia's forehead past the barrier of her hijab. 

"I....I cannot hold these a moment longer," Nadia gasped as she let go of the saddle by not so gracefully letting it fall to the ground. 

If the Duke's son thought twice about the matter, he would have agreed with his faults; but as he stared at the reins the woman threw at her feet, all he could muster was anger over his most unfortunate circumstances.

"Well, I'm sorry, miss, for thinking you a stable girl. After all, why are you in my stables in the first place, in my home, wearing that awful clothing? Really, who do you think you are?"

The words he threw back at her were harsh; yet true. Nadia felt herself humiliated for the umpteenth time today. With no words to counter the attack, she gave the Duke's son a heated glare and walked as fast as she could away from him, the frock of her mother's oversized dress sweeping the floor and the toes of Guzmán Nunier's boots. 

Brown really was not her colour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved all of your positive comments and desire for me to continue. What do you guys think?

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts? Should I continue?


End file.
